Snowmen of London
by LittleDuchess
Summary: It is the height of the Victorian Era and Francis discovers Arthur expressing a, perhaps rather ridiculous, zeal in the name of modesty. Involving snowmen. Based on a true historical incident, which is just as absurd as it sounds.


**Title:** Snowmen of London  
**Character(s):** England, France, a butler, a snowman, a street urchin and a brief mention of Canada.  
**Rating:** R for liberal use of language. Brief (very brief) innuendo  
**Warnings: **Abuse of French and C19th Victorian slang

Full Summary:

Two years ago in English Language class I received a printout that contained the story of a rich prudish Victorian widow. When this well-to-do woman died she left her entire, considerable fortune, to 'cloth the snowmen of London'. I have long since lost the paper containing the salient details, so forgive me for guessing at the date, but the unfortunate 'snowmen of London' will always have a special place in my mind.

Things to know: 'To speak French' was english slang for indulging in unconventional sexual play.

**_Onwards!:_**

**_

* * *

  
_**

Francis was, against his will, deeply concerned about Arthur.

He had hoped across the channel for a tête-à-tête about this newfangled electrical power grid. Instead of the usual greeting, there had been none. The nation was not at his desk, not even in his home. A butler gave him a London map and vague instructions instead before bundling Francis out the door and into the windy snow-capped streets.

It took two hours of wandering through smog filled outdoor corridors and dodging child-criminals in the frozen winter air but finally Francis came across his target.

Said target was adjusting a tailored waistcoat on a lump of grey … snow.

'There, there… that's better, much more scrumdolious.' The nation was murmuring, his back to Francis, rummaging within a bag that would have looked at home on the shoulder du sacré père noël. Occasionally Arthur would tug his scarf higher up, readjust the ridiculously huge hat on his head, and dip his hands deep into the pockets of his Saville-Row long grey overcoat.

'Dieux du ciel!'

'Zounds!' Arthur jumped. He tripped, spilling over coats, skirts, shirts and petticoats from the bulging bag.

'Au nom de la vierge, que me fous-tu là? What', he corrected himself in English, 'are you doing?!'

'Well, I say,' Arthur readjusted his top hat, ' nice of you to visit my dear dandy-frog.'

'And you, rosbif, have not answered the pertinent question.'

'Well, if you simply most know, I am doing my civic duty towards maintaining the moral standards of the country.'

'Moral standards.'

'Yes.'

'Snowmen.'

'Indeed.'

'With itty-bitty waistcoats.'

'As you can see.'

'No, Arthur, I really don't see.'

Francis registered that a crowd had gathered around them, old men and young scrap-draped girls. They were ignoring the argument. Instead they cast hungry eyes on the spilled clothes that were now thoroughly damp from the snow.

Francis kindly turned to the nearest child. She was typical English, round face and ruddy red cheeked, shivering.

'Ma chichi, isn't there somewhere you should on a Monday morning?' Francis patted her straggly thin hair.

'Indeed. I'm sure your factory master is missing you.' Arthur said disapprovingly, whilst stuffing back the spilt clothes into his bag.

The wide-eyed child scampered.

'Arthur,' France straightened, 'I was thinking more of school.'

'Like _she'll_ need that.'

'Right.' Francis clenched his fist, 'Exactly like that snowman needs a evening ensemble.'

Arthur had a look on his face reminiscent of a parent explaining why the sky is blue to a child for the hundredth time that morning. He sighed, brows furrowed, and reached into the left pocket of his overcoat to pull out a pair of black cloth gloves. The empire's fingers, Francis Bonnefoy observed, were somewhat blue at the tip. Noting his gaze Arthur murmured something about 'pernickety fiddly buttons'.

'I am England. I stand for decency and civilisation. And I'll be deuced if these blasted snowmen corrupt that image!

Really, Francis didn't even know why he was bothering to follow what was happening anymore. Obviously Arthur now believed that a child's snowman was going to cause the collapse of the Empire. If only they would! Francis would be out there rolling the polluted snow with the best of them, and not even so desperately longing for a roaring fire and slippers, were that the case.

'All human representations, all things with', Arthur sniffed in disgust, 'limbs, must fulfil the standards of modesty imposed by all civilised society. I am sure that no person, no lady, should be subjected to such an unsightly business.'

Francis massaged his forehead furiously between his index finger and thumb.

'Arthur, when young Canada told me about the piano leg business I thought he was joking. I erroneously believed that not even you could be that repressed. Clearly, naked snowmen being such an offence to your delicate sensibilities and all, I was wrong.'

'Don't you dare say that word in public, you unscrupulous lascivious slip-gibbet!'

'M'enfin! What wrong word did I say now, espèce de chien?!'

'Leg!' England screamed. Face red, he immediately clapped his hands over his mouth before murmuring 'excuse my French' and fishing out his smelling salts.

'Arthur, I can always excuse legs. Your painfully tenuous grasp of my language is another matter entirely.' And so is your ridiculously prudish mental state he wanted to add.

'Humph.' Arthur sniffed and hoisted the clothes bag over his shoulder. 'I will have you know I most certainly do not have any interest in speaking French.'

'Mon chérie, you are fooling no one. It is my theory that your prude exterior exists merely to hide your burning, extreme fondness for speaking French. After all is it not called le "fléau anglais"?'

Francis registered that Arthur's ears were bright red and practically pouring steam. His teeth were clenched and working hard to release a suitable reply. Finally it came;

'Oh, why don't you go back to hell and help your mother make bitch-pie!'

_Finis_

* * *

**Historical Notes:**

_Electrical power grid:_ 1881 saw the first electrical power plant and grid in Godalming, Britain.

(Source: .org/wiki/19th_century)

'_I was thinking more of school':_ In the 1880s school became compulsory for all children in France under the age of 15. This was a huge progressive leap forward, especially since the law included girls, although classrooms were still segregated. You can still kind of see the result of this today; my old school used to have two front doors, one for girls and one for boys, as a left-over from this era. France has always placed high value on education.

(Source: .org/wiki/French_Education_System)

_I'm sure your factory master is missing you:_ Sadly England's domestic empire and industrial revolution was built on the back of a shameful amount of child labour. I don't have the date when it was abolished so this could be anachronistic but poverty, and thus abuse, was rampant and widely tolerated.

(.org/wiki/Victorian_era#Child_labour)

_The piano leg business:_ The common belief that in Victorian England piano legs had to be covered lest they cause, shall we say, improper excitement. Yes, repression does weird things to you. Legs, arms etc… was not polite, or so the myth goes, and had to be referred to as limbs instead because those words might make people think too much of the body.

**Slang:**

_Scrumdolious, Zounds, Dandy, Deuced, Slip-gibbet, Go to hell and help your mother make bitch-pie_- all are legitimate slang belonging approximately to this era.

**French:**

_du sacré père noël _: the holy father Christmas

_Dieux du ciel!_: God in heaven

_Au nom de la vierge, que me fous-tu là_?: in the name of the virgin, what are you fucking well doing?

_Rosbif_ : Roast-beef- slang for Englishman.

_Ma chichi_: My darling

_M'enfin!_ : But what now! (the last two are a bit paraphrased- there isn't really a precise equivalent)

_espèce de chien_: damned dog

_fléau anglais _: The English vice- French slang for sado-masochism.


End file.
